


And beauty draws us with a single hair

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Femdom, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Light Bondage, Multi, Painplay, Voyeurism, Whipping, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock whimpered and Irene tugged a little harder, twisting the fingers of her hand in his dark curls.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>So, there was this <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/arts/television/benedict-cumberbatch-moves-from-role-to-role.html">article</a> in which Cumberbatch said:</p><p>"Pull the hair on my head the wrong way, and I would be on my knees begging for mercy. I have very sensitive follicles."</p><p>This was inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And beauty draws us with a single hair

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot to a_lanart for helping to create the mental images that made me write this fic and for help on the Brit picking front, and to lostgirlslair for being a wonderful beta and a beautiful person.

_Are you sitting down? Good._

_You might also want to check that you're alone and have closed your door. Things could get a bit steamy in here..._

_Are you sitting comfortably? Yes?_

_In that case, close your eyes and imagine...._

 

_...imagine, if you will, the interior of 221B Baker Street. We are in the living room and right there, between the two windows which are letting in the sunshine of a hazy day in central London, is a beautiful little tableau: Sherlock Holmes is standing with his back to his desk, almost sitting on its edge. There are papers and books scattered over it but Sherlock isn't looking at any of them. Instead he is bent backwards over the desk, his spine in a tight bow, and his eyes are fixed firmly on the ceiling. The reason for this very unusual and highly uncomfortable position is that Irene Adler is standing just to the right of the desk and has her hand twisted into Sherlock's hair. Over the last minute she has used her hold on his head to pull his head and shoulders back ever so slowly, so that he is now threatening to keel over backwards._

 

_  
_

_Irene_

Sherlock whimpered and Irene tugged a little harder, twisting the fingers of her hand in his dark curls. He gave a hiss of pain – so sensitive! - and bent back even further, his long body arched over the cluttered surface of his desk. His eyes were closed and his face contorted into a grimace of pain that made her nipples tighten deliciously.

 

“See, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured into his ear, “the thing is, _I_ don't bluff.” She pulled again on the silky strands and Sherlock's elbows landed on the table with a thud, books and papers scattering everywhere as he attempted to lessen the strain by following her hand backwards.

 

She smirked. “ _I_ know exactly what I am doing.”

 

She dragged a single fingernail up his chest, tipping up his chin even more. Sherlock gave a whole body shudder that was simply delightful. Irene laughed throatily and then, quite suddenly, reversed the direction of her pull. She stepped forward, past the desk on her right, and dragged Sherlock up and with her until he had no choice but to crash to his knees in a satisfyingly inelegant way. His breathing was loud and fast now and the very obvious bulge at his crotch emphasised what she already knew. He was _loving_ this.

 

She re-firmed her grip and, bending his head sideways to expose his right cheek, brought her other hand down in a precise and stinging slap. His breath hitched and he flushed a splotchy red but didn't move a muscle.

 

Irene could feel herself getting wet and pressed her thighs together so she could feel the slippery folds of her cunt glide against each other. It had been years since a client had got to her in this way and never a male one. But Sherlock Holmes was proving himself an exception to remarkably many rules. 

 

 

It was at this moment that the door to the sitting room opened, admitting John Watson and DI Lestrade. Irene spared them a cursory glance – just enough to take in the fact that the inspector looked positively mouth-watering in black motorcycle leathers and that both men's mouths were hanging open in surprise.

 

Then she turned back to the task at hand. Sherlock's eyes had flown open at the creak of the door and he was staring at her now with an expression that was downright pleading, though whether he was entreating her to stop or to continue was unclear. She had noticed the twitch of his cock when the two men stepped into the room – an exhibitionist as well as a masochist, then – and decided to simply ignore them for the time being.

 

She jerked his head back to an upright position with a painful and sudden tug, which made him moan out loud, and then bent down to bring her mouth directly to Sherlock's ear, whispering: “I will release you in a second and then you _will_ get up and take off your clothes.”

 

He tried to shake his head but she simply tightened her grip and he froze.

 

“Do you want to safeword, Sherlock?”

 

For a long moment the only sound in the room was Sherlock's ragged breathing. Then he licked his lips and said in a hoarse whisper: “Green.”

 

She smiled wolfishly and stepped back, letting go of his hair.

 

Sherlock got to his feet shakily and, his eyes downcast, began to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers.

 

She took the opportunity to check up on their two spectators and noticed that they had ended up on the couch where Lestrade seemed to be intent on snogging John's face right off, if the sounds he was making were any indication. Judging by the way John was busy getting his hands inside the man's leather jacket, he was enjoying this as well. Lestrade moved his mouth to John's neck and started to suck intently on one spot, so that John gave a deep groan, his spine arching up, and Irene returned her attention to Sherlock.

 

 

_John_

When he had met Lestrade at their doorstep John had taken a moment to appreciate the way the black leather hugged his body and made him look rakish and slightly dangerous before asking him in. He had only ever seen the man in suits and this outfit was so decidedly less respectable and sexy that John felt completely thrown off balance. Since when did he fancy Lestrade? But he did, that much was obvious. As they went up the stairs he found himself savouring the view of Greg's shapely arse in trousers that seemed almost buttery smooth and very, very tight, outlining every clench of his muscles. He gulped and had just managed to draw his eyes back up to a decent height when Lestrade opened the door to their living room onto a vision that would appear in John's dreams for years to come.

 

There, kneeling on the floor in one of his expensive suits and John's favourite burgundy shirt, was Sherlock with Irene standing over him, a handful of Sherlock's hair in her fist. Sherlock's head was bent gracefully to the side, exposing the arch of his long pale neck, a red hand-print slowly blooming on his right cheek. Sherlock's eyes were open and he was staring intently at Irene who gave his hair a short vicious pull that made him moan out loud.

 

John's dick throbbed in his pants and he realised that he had become almost painfully hard in the few seconds it took him to take in this little scene. He turned to Lestrade and saw that he was staring at Sherlock with wide, dark eyes, his bottom lip clenched painfully between his teeth. So he wasn't the only one who found this insanely hot. Good to know. Then Lestrade turned towards him and then looked back and forth between John and Sherlock for a moment. Irene had bent down to whisper something into Sherlock's ear which made him attempt to shake his head but Irene twisted her hand in his hair _hard_ and Sherlock gave a little whimper that went straight to John's groin.

 

Lestrade drew in a shaky breath and then turned to John asking: “D'you, do you want to, to stay and watch?” His voice sounded hoarse and unsteady and his face was flushed bright red which was sexier than it should be. John just mutely nodded his head and they stumbled over to the couch and sat down heavily. John adjusted himself a little, his erection pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans and heard Irene ask: “Do you want to safeword, Sherlock?”

 

John held his breath for a moment, afraid that Sherlock would call a halt to the proceedings and almost without his volition his left hand reached over and grabbed Greg's leg in a tight squeeze while his eyes remained firmly trained on the scene in front of him.

 

Then Sherlock whispered “green” and the air rushed back into John's lungs.

 

Irene released Sherlock who got to his feet and started to undo his shirt, never lifting his gaze from the floor. John realised that she must have ordered him to strip and couldn't help the delighted shiver running over him at the idea of Sherlock stark bollocks naked in the middle of their living room.

 

He turned his head to see whether Lestrade had come to the same conclusion and found himself caught in the man's intense gaze. And then, suddenly, and faster than John could really process it, Lestrade had pushed him back against the couch and was licking his way into John's mouth; the glide of their tongues against each other both addictive and delightfully filthy. John dug his teeth into Lestrade's bottom lip and pulled and Lestrade moaned and then slid his mouth downwards to John's neck. He lapped at John's skin and began to suck and bite, and then suck harder in a way that would no doubt create a spectacular hickey and felt shockingly good. John whimpered, his hips jerking up off the couch of their own accord and then Lestrade intensified his efforts and _bit_ him with exactly the right amount of sharp teeth. At that he had to push the man off because he was _not_ going to embarrass himself and come in his trousers from having his neck sucked like a fucking teenager. Jesus.

 

Lestrade stared down at him for a moment panting heavily and then they both turned back to where Sherlock was just stepping out of his pants with awkward, jerky movements that were utterly unlike him. His dick was flushed and hard and leaking a little at the tip in a way that made John's mouth positively water with want.

 

Irene was standing in front of him, her arms crossed, and was raking her eyes over his pale, muscular body in an appraising fashion. Jesus, she was looking at him like he was a horse she was considering buying: Coldly, intently and utterly dismissive and John could feel his gut clench at the sight. That, he tried to tell his twitching dick, should not be this hot.

 

 

 

_Sherlock_

Sherlock did his best to hold still under Irene's gaze but he couldn't help the faint tremors that were running up and down his body. His scalp was still smarting painfully, as if she had in fact succeeded in pulling out most of his hair by the root, and his cheek was hot and tender where she had struck him. He could feel the pain radiating through his body like an electric current, intensifying all sensation and he felt utterly exposed standing in his living room naked as the day he was born. The idea that John and Lestrade were witnessing all this, that they could see just how much he enjoyed being hurt, that they would be able to tell just how aroused he was by this whole scenario with a single look at his erect dick was intensely humiliating. The thought heightened his arousal even further, making his cock twitch.

 

After a moment, Irene smirked in a satisfied way and then ordered him to bend over and grab the armrests of one of the stuffed chairs by the fireplace. He chose the one that would expose his profile to the two men on the couch and leaned forward, his arse in the air.

 

“God, Sherlock,” he heard Lestrade gasp, “do you have any idea how indecent you look?” He sounded almost annoyed.

 

Irene laughed. “Oh, believe me, he has every idea. He wants to be admired, don't you, Sherlock?”

 

She stepped closer and buried her fingers in his hair once more, pulling on it painfully and he gave a helpless little sound of distress. His dick, impossibly, seemed to get harder, smearing pre-cum against his belly.

 

“I think he likes to perform for you two. He wants you to see what he looks like when I make him hurt. Wants to show you what a glutton for punishment he is.”

 

The words were vulgar and not terribly original but Sherlock still couldn't help the shiver that crept down his spine at them.

 

Irene laughed again, scratching all four nails of her right hand along his back towards his arse and he arched into the touch like a cat, intensifying the pull on his hair. The pain shot down to his balls as a hot flash of sensation and he whimpered in disappointment when she let go of his hair.

 

“I believe you have a riding crop on the premises?”

 

His breath hitched at the words and he nodded mutely.

 

“Where might it be found?” she asked archly and he had to swallow several times before his vocal cords cooperated enough to croak out “Wardrobe. Bedroom.”

 

“Very well. You will stay exactly as you are,” she commanded and he could hear the click of her heels against the floor as she strode off to fetch – oh God, she would get the riding crop. She would _whip_ him. Sherlock couldn't help the moan that escaped at the thought.

 

He heard an answering sound from his left and when he moved his head ever so slightly he could see John and Lestrade sitting side by side on the sofa. Lestrade had unzipped his trousers, his flushed dick an obscene contrast to the black leather, and was fisting himself rhythmically. John was staring at Sherlock so intently Sherlock could feel his gut flutter with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. He had a hand pressed to the rather impressive bulge in his jeans and was breathing heavily, his cheeks flushed bright red.

 

His attention abruptly returned to Irene as she re-entered the room carrying his favourite riding crop. She was holding it casually in her right hand, smacking it against her left palm and the look on her face was both delighted and predatory.

 

“Now, boys, the fun will really begin!” She said and stalked over to Sherlock.

 

He closed his eyes and lowered his head in anticipation and she sank her fingers into his hair once more. At first she simply let her left hand rest gently on the back of his head, stroking his scalp in soothing circles with her fingertips until some of the anticipatory tension had drained out of him. Then she suddenly yanked his head up with an agonising jerk, so that it was bent at an uncomfortable angle to his rounded spine. The sharp pain radiating from his hair brought helpless tears to his eyes at the same time as could feel his cock thicken further.

 

Irene lightly trailed the soft end of the riding crop up his legs, the sensation almost a tickle, and then let it rest against his back side. His breathing had become fast and shallow and his awareness was strangely contracted around these two points of contact: Her unforgiving hand in his hair and the soft, soft touch of the riding crop against his arse.

 

Then she lifted the crop and delivered a stinging blow to his backside that made him cry out in pain and surprise. She barely gave him time to process the sensation, simply moving the riding crop up and laying another burning strip across his spine. He hissed and tried to twist away from the pain but was immediately stopped by the iron grip she retained on his hair. More slaps followed in close succession and Sherlock could feel himself start to tremble, his focus growing blurry in the way it always did when pain helped him move to that altered state where he ceased to talk, ceased to think, ceased to process. He fought against it, trying to analyse the angle and velocity of the blows, reciting the chemical compounds his body was releasing as a result, but Irene was whipping him relentlessly and kept pulling at his hair with short, abortive tugs. He soon found himself helplessly twisting and jerking under her, not knowing whether to move towards or away from the pain, wanting it to stop, wanting it to go on forever, gasping and moaning and shuddering all over.

 

 

 

_Greg_

When Irene left to fetch the riding crop Sherlock had turned his head and looked at them and Greg couldn't help the slight twinge of mean delight in just how wrecked the man looked. Leaning over one of his armchairs, his dick flushed and hard against his stomach and with the four vivid red lines Irene's nails had scored into the pale skin of his back, he looked utterly debauched. His mouth was open and he was panting, and for once utterly silent. Greg had to admit that the idea of Sherlock non-verbal and submissive was definitely doing things for him. Oh yes. Who would have thought that the easiest way to get the arrogant prick to shut up was to give him a good thrashing? Greg should have tried that ages ago. God, he looked edible and he was so clearly _enjoying_ himself. Greg groaned and pushed up into his fist. This was every voyeuristic fantasy he had ever had about Sherlock fucking Holmes brought to life. And he had had a lot of fantasies.

 

When Irene returned with the riding crop and started to lay into Sherlock for real, he had to tug at his balls and close his eyes for a moment. He opened them again to the sight of John Watson looking about as flushed and desperate as anyone he had ever seen, and glancing hungrily back and forth between Sherlock, who was rapidly turning into a whimpering, writhing mess, and Greg's cock. John was licking his lips in a way that created a vivid image of what that perfect little mouth would look like wrapped around his dick and once the thought had entered his head Greg couldn't keep his eyes from flickering back and forth between John's mouth and his prick. John seemed to understand his meaning instantly and blushed an even deeper shade of red. Who knew John Watson liked giving head? This day was just getting better and better.

 

Greg grinned and raised an eyebrow. “You want a taste then? Up for some cock-sucking?”

 

John didn't answer but simply slid off the couch and to his knees between Greg's legs. Within seconds his dick was buried in John's hot mouth, feeling John's tongue lap around its head. He groaned in pleasure, torn now between two mesmerising sights: In front of him Sherlock was arching and gasping into the relentless _thwack_ of Irene's strikes, his pale back marred by a complex pattern of red lines, his eyes closed in ecstasy. And between his legs John Watson was sucking cock like there was no tomorrow. He had his eyes blissfully closed and was sucking and swallowing around Greg's dick as if he couldn't get enough of the taste. Greg thrust forward experimentally and John's mouth went utterly slack while he hummed appreciatively in his throat. The vibrations felt amazing around the head of his dick and Greg started fucking John's mouth with short, shallow thrusts, trying not to hurt the man but unable to resist the smooth glide of his prick over John's tongue.

 

 

 

_John_

John was glad Sherlock couldn't see the eagerness on his face as he leant forward to take Lestrade's dick into his mouth; he hadn't blown a guy in ages and the very idea made him stupidly turned on. The fact that this was _Lestrade_ he was going down on, and the knowledge that he was doing it right in their  living room, made his cock throb and leak into his pants.

 

There was something both wrong and insanely hot about the way his professional and sexual self were suddenly brought together by this, and the thought that he was about to suck off a guy he would have to work with for the rest of the foreseeable future was both strangely exciting and exhilarating.

 

He leant forward and buried his nose in Lestrade's crotch for a moment, breathing in the scent of leather and male arousal, his ears filled with the sharp whistle of the riding crop and Sherlock's bitten-off cries. John moaned and licked a strip up Greg's dick which was nice and long, if not especially thick. He sucked the head into his mouth and played with the foreskin for a bit, then tongued the smooth underside. Oh, but he had missed this. The taste of a cock in his mouth, the glide of his lips over silky smooth skin. He sucked greedily, spit dripping down his chin. And then Greg pushed up into his mouth and he couldn't prevent a helpless little whimper. He relaxed his jaw as much as possible and let Greg fuck his mouth to the sounds of Sherlock getting the beating of his life.

 

 

 

_Irene_

By this point, Sherlock had stopped moving around and was simply holding as still as his trembling muscles would allow. His head was hanging heavily from her hand, dragged upright only by the grip she still had on his hair and his face was utterly relaxed while his body spasmed and twitched with every blow. He was making low, continuous sounds that seemed utterly involuntary but were definite expressions of pleasure.

 

Time to finish him off, she decided. She gave two stinging slaps each to the inside of his thighs, which she had avoided so far, and Sherlock reared up in shock, his eyes flying open.

 

In the background she could hear Detective Inspector Lestrade give a surprised shout as he, no doubt, came hard down John Watson's throat. Irene smiled a satisfied little smile at that.

 

She released Sherlock's hair and stepped around him so that she was standing only centimetres behind him. His sides were heaving and he was gasping for air as if he was drowning. She could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the bruises that were already forming. They looked beautiful against the milky pallor of his skin.

 

“Stand up!” She commanded. He straightened his spine and she reached out a hand and gently ran it over the welts on his back. He shivered and moaned at the contact which would feel sharp and stinging on his abused skin, she knew.

 

“Do you want to come?”

 

He nodded jerkily.

 

“Very well then, touch yourself.”

 

He gripped himself in a trembling hand and began to strip his cock with short, rhythmic strokes while she continued to play with the pattern she had laid out on his back. Her touch was feather light on his reddened skin but he still twitched and gasped helplessly whenever her fingers touched on a welt, salty and biting with a thin film of sweat.

 

Suddenly, she heard movement from the left side of the room and turned her head just in time to see John crawl over from where he had been kneeling between Lestrade's legs. She twitched one of her eyebrows up questioningly but he took no notice of her, his eyes firmly fixed on Sherlock. John came to a halt directly in front of him and then reached up to still Sherlock's frantically pumping hand.

 

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and stared at him in confusion for a moment. John licked his cracked lips, his voice coming out wrecked as he asked: “Please? Let me – Can I do this for you?”

 

Sherlock hesitated for only a microsecond and then he nodded, letting both arms fall to the side. His hands clenched into fists as Irene continued her gentle, painful touches on his back and John started to jerk him slowly but steadily with his right hand, his left busily and awkwardly pulling on his own cock. Soon Irene could feel Sherlock's muscles quaking, the trembling building into involuntary jerks, while he kept gasping “Oh, oh, oh” over and over again. Finally she reached up with both hands and gripped a strand of hair in each fist, pulling her hands apart into opposite directions.

 

At the sudden shock of intense pain from his scalp, Sherlock gave a shout and folded up like a jackknife, coming all over John's face, and John's mouth formed a surprised little “O” as he spilled over his own hand with a gasp.

 

*

 

Irene was pulling on her coat and walking away from Baker Street looking frantically for a cab while pressing buttons blindly on her phone.

 

“Kate? Are you home? Oh _good_. I am coming over right now and then I will need you to bend me over the nearest surface and give me the fucking of my life.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "The Rape of the Lock" by Alexander Pope (no, I'm not making this up).


End file.
